Youth In Revolt
by Ninja Master
Summary: Ron wasn't a rebel untill he found his cause.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sound of deep heaving breaths. Moist flesh flapping accompaniment. Someone is beating off. A pause as the someone turns the page of a magazine. The beating off

resumes at a quickened pace. The squeaking of bed springs joins in. Another page

is turned. Feverish thumping until a male voice lets out a quiet moan. The breathing gradually slows to normal and lets out a relieved sigh of finality. My name... is Ron.

Ron Stoppable, 16, stares up at the ceiling. He's glassy eyed from the exertion...

...sprawled on the bed, trousers around his ankles, a well thumbed issue of Penthouse covers his privates. My last name, which I loath, is Stoppable. Ron pulls up his

trousers and leaps off the bed. He pulls the drawer under his mattress out. The next

thing you should know about me is that I am obsessed with sex. A view of the drawer reveals it to be filled with neatly filed issues of Penthouse and Hustler. He puts the

most recently utilized magazine in its place. Lately, I have become morbidly aware

of my penis. Ron posing in front of the mirror, pants around his ankles again. He looks at himself from various angles. Once a remote region accessed indifferently for

micturition, it has developed overnight into a gaudy Las Vegas of the body. The pulsing

neon sign outside the club reads: RON'S PENIS. A star-studded floor show. Drunken Conventioneers make out with strippers. A leopard leaps through a burning hoop on

stage. Ron typing on an obsolete PC. I am entering the tenth grade at St. Vitus

Academy, which, I am told, is the most rigorous prep school in the East Bay. Hopefully I will be invited to join Miss Go's English Literature class. A view of the books and

CDs on his shelf. I am a voracious reader and listen to Frank Sinatra. So needless to

say, I am still a virgin. The curser on the monitor as he types the words - still a virgin. He pauses in thought, then continues. I have yet to hold hands with a girl, let alone

have my winkie up her wendell. An airplane aisle, past Passengers sleeping and

chatting. I am an only child except for my big sister Britna, who has left the bosom of her family to sling hash at 35,000 feet. We reach the end of the aisle, where a

buxom twentysomething, Britna Stoppable serves a beverage. Liver frying in a pan.

Adrena Stoppable, 43, cooks and puffs on a cigarette at the same time. Mom gives driver's tests at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Ron sits at the kitchen table reading

the paper. He watches with nausea as Adrena piles liver onto his plate. She

used to keep Dad up to date on all the motor statutes he was violating. This is one of the reasons they got divorced. Phillipe, early 40's, saunters in wearing a truckers do

it in overdrive shirt and boxers. His gut hangs over the elastic, but he is

completely devoid of an ass. Mom's boyfriend, Phillipe is a long distance trucker, though his ultimate ambition is to be on state disability. Phillipe absently smacks Adrena's

butt. Waddles over to the breakfast table. He snatches the Funnies from the

paper in Ron's hands. I've been struggling to think of a commendable thing to say about Phillipe. Phillipe gives an asinine chuckle at the cartoon. Ron glares. No luck. His

grey matter registers at cretin and the needle doesn't budge.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Drakken Stoppable, 41, scruffy and greying, waters the foliage outside the house with a high powered hose. Dad is a copywriter for agricultural magazines. In the drive,

Ron slaves over the duty of washing the rims of his dad's BMW 325i. He'd like to

own a more prestigious model of BMW, but, as he often reminds me, he is burdened with crippling child support payments. Ron glances up and spots Vivian, 20, coming up

the drive toward him in a weensy bikini. Her body has more outcroppings than

the coastline of Albania. She continues past him and embraces Drakken. Vivian is Dad's latest bimbette. She is twenty and a recently minted alumna of Stanfort. Drakken

and Vivian exchange saliva shamelessly. Ron turns his attention back to the

Beamer. As the making out becomes heated groping, Drakken's grip on the hose slackens. Ron gets blindsided by the jet of water. Ron as he types on his computer. He

looks down at the tent in his boxers. Of the room shaking, accompanied by his

heavy breathing. His eyes float from the Hustler to the pink walls of his room. My mother is the one who painted my room to look like Dolly Parton's boudoir. She read

this color was used in hospitals to calm mental patients. Ron closes his eyes, his right

arm moving rhythmically. I'll tell you what I told her. I am not mentally ill. The masturbation reaches its feverous climax. Then the long moan and sigh of relief. I'm just a

teenager. Ron regards Phillipe from across the dining room table. Sound of a

cretin slurping Cheerios. Phillipe reading Sports Illustrated, scratching his balls with one hand and shoveling in cereal with the other. Adrena is washing dishes when she

spies something out the window. Phillipe? Where did that car come from?

Phillipe looks over his shoulder and they all take a moment to appreciate the slab-sided Lincoln in the drive. It's a '62 Lincoln convertible. Like the one Kennedy was shot

in. Except his was black and yours is white. And dirty. See that. I was going to

take you and your mom for a spin after breakfast. But now I guess it'll just be her and me. You have your smart mouth to thank for that. Damn it. I guess I'll just have to

hang out all alone at the book depository. The what? Phillipe, I don't

understand. What happened to the Chevy-Nova? Sold it to a sailor on the Alameda Naval Air Base. A man should never own a car for more than three months, Adrena.

That way he always gets the thrill of owning a new automobile! Smiles with cretin

pride. Ron looks to his mother and disturbingly enough, she seems turned on by his car-owner savvy. Ron stands in the doorway watching as his mother waits for Phillipe

to open the passenger door for her. After spending twelve years with Dad,

Mom has had a string of lovers, none of whom she has asked me to approve. Phillipe fails to notice Adrena waiting and instead just climbs in and chugs his beer. Adrena

appears mildly disappointed before opening the door herself. I'm starting to

think her boyfriends are like U.S. Presidents. As Phillipe pulls out, he tosses his beer bottle in the Just when you think they can't get any worse... He misses and the bottle

shatters on the pavement, but Phillipe drives off anyway. ...she manages to

find God's Perfect Asshole. Ron cycles through TiVo and finds the late night Sex documentary he recorded. From the living room comes the sound of an orgy and the jingle

jangle of a belt buckle. Then the ding-dong of the front doorbell. The jingle

jangle pauses and when the doorbell rings a second time, the orgy gets muted. Ron enters the kitchen pulling up his trousers. The door is opened to reveal two burly,

tattooed sailors standing on the stoop. Their eyes drift to Ron's mid-section. Ron

follows their eyes to the belt buckle he neglected to fasten out of haste. He returns his gaze to the sailors as he wrangles the belt. Is Phillipe here? He just left. What's up?

What's up is that hunk of shit Chevy he sold us made it seventeen miles

before the engine blew up. And we found evidence of a banana in the transmission. The second sailor holds aloft the banana peel sealed in a plastic bag. Ron glances to

drive and regards the smoking Chevy-Nova with its camouflage paint job. A

third sailor is rummaging through the boxes in the open garage. He finds some spray-paint and shakes the can. Ron turns back to the sailors on the stoop.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter3

So he owes us nine hundred dollars. Well, I think he used that nine hundred dollars to buy his Lincoln. He's giving my mom a joyride in it now. But he'll be back this

afternoon, so I would come back then. He's pretty stubborn. You might have to beat it out of him. That can be arranged. In the meantime we're leaving the piece of shit

in the driveway. With a note. Ron looks one more time to the Chevy as the third sailor finishes painting the hood with the words: PAY UP OR DIE. I like it. Very to the

point. Well... See you guys this afternoon! The sailors nod, somewhat perplexed by this kid's demeanor. As they turn to go and Ron closes the door... I might have to kill

myself.

In the clearing, a UC Jock stands behind his Asian

girlfriend, kissing her neck and removing her clothes.

I hope you have a good reason. Ron and his friend Felix, 16, belly down in the grass overlooking the clearing. Felix watches the copulating couple with a pair of binoculars.

My sister said she saw Zita Flores holding hands with some

college guy. I dunno, Felix. I think your sister is just waging psychological warfare. Well it's working. What am I gonna

do, Ron? I'm obsessed. I think about Zita so much my balls ache.

Maybe your just not wacking off enough. As if in response, Felix passes the binoculars off to Ron and then turns over onto his back and unzips his pants. As Felix jerks it,

Ron looks with nonchalance... The couple hump in the grass, her legs in the air. So, I've been taping my pecker to

my right leg at night. In case you haven't heard, Felix's

erect member takes a dramatic turn midway up the shaft. Then I look at this issue of Better Homes and Gardens that has a girl

that looks just like Zita until it gets good and hard. I think it's starting to straighten out. Why don't you just have your

parents take you to the dick doctor? Are you kidding? It would kill them to know that I even get hard-ons. Still, you might want to get it fixed before asking Zita out. True.

What if I shove it up the wrong hole? Ron gives a dubious glance in Felix's direction. Felix's grasp of the female anatomy

is somewhat tenuous; he imagines there are orifices galore down there. Ron, you little shit, get down here! Phillipe hollers from the kitchen where Adrena gapes out the

window. Ron calmly joins them from upstairs. Ron, do you know anything about this?

She points out the window and they all take in the Chevy and

the sailors' oh-so-subtle note on the hood. Oh, yeah. Those sailors came by. They want their money back. I guess

there was a banana in the transmission. You tell them when I was coming back? Now why would I do that? Phillipe seethes inwardly at Ron's mock innocence. What are

you going to do, Phillipe? I think I'll go get the Lincoln washed. You're leaving? What happens when the sailor comes back for his ninehundred dollars? Just tell him he

bought the car

with my standard guarantee. Thirty days or thirty feet. Whichever comes first. I'm in the right. The ring of the doorbell and the simultaneous pounding of angry Navy fists

on the back door. They peer out the window and find the fleet on the front steps. Oh, look. The sailors are here. Phillipe first starts to dart one way and then another,

searching for a hiding space as he hisses. Get rid of them!

And then the front door gets kicked open and a mob of sailors

pour in. Phillipe flees. He heads for the back and is cut off by the sailors coming in. Phillipe bolts up the stairs. Phillipe, where are you going? Just tell them you are in the

right. They manage to grab Phillipe by the legs and haul him down the

stairs. Phillipe loses his grasp step by step, crying with a

sound not unlike E.T. when the flashlight hit him in the

cornfield. The two big guys with bad haircuts hold Phillipe off the ground while the earnstwhile Chevy owner goes through his pockets.


End file.
